


PS I Love You

by almightygwil (elllie)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Love Letters, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:34:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29411307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elllie/pseuds/almightygwil
Summary: Your best friend gets sent to war, and for the first time, you begin to wonder if he's just your best friend.
Relationships: Gwilym Lee/Reader





	PS I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> PS I Love You // Billie Holiday. I don't know shit about WWII, I am literally just vibing.

Childhood best friends. 

Of course, it looks—from the outside—that you two are meant for one another. That’s because no one knows the ins and outs of your years-long friendship. It looks like you’re made for one another because you had spent all your life mentally jotting down every last detail of Gwilym Lee. You weren’t meant for one another, though you fit together like two puzzle pieces. No higher power has made sure of that. No, you fit together because you had spent years melding yourselves into one another’s sides, listening and learning and laughing. You were not made soulmates, but you had chosen one another, and in some ways, that made it more special. 

You had never been without him. It’s what makes his departure such a flurry of emotions. Between the proud smiles of the old ladies in your church (“What’ll you do without him, Y/N?” They’d always tease; you weren’t proud to admit that you weren’t sure) and the tears of your mothers and filling every single day you have left together with one of his relentless plans, you almost forget that _you’re_ losing him, too. Not just your mothers or the women from the church or the man who works behind the counter at the soda shop. You. You are losing your best friend, and it hardly hits you until the two of you are standing in front of his stoop, bags in the boot and the car running at the curb.

You’ve been light-hearted about it since the letter came, almost as though nothing was going to change, but when his parents leave you two alone for a moment, and you finally get a good look at him before you in his uniform, the tears in your eyes almost appear on their own.

“Oh, no. You’ve held out so long, _now_ you’ve got to go crying?” He teases, and over the fence, you can hear the ladies from the church cooing at the two of you, but you’re too busy blubbering to care.

“Gwilym,” you sob, collapsing into his chest. He laughs softly, wrapping an arm around your waist to keep you upright. “You can’t leave me, I won’t let you.”

“I think the Marines might have something to say about that, love,” he retorts, shooting for a laugh and landing a pitiful, ragged sob instead. “Hey, you’re okay. _I’m_ the one risking my life.”

“You sick bastard!” You cry, pulling away to punch him in the arm. He laughs loudly and you grunt. “Why would you say something like that?” 

“Just trying to stop your tears,” he reasons, still chuckling. There’s a moment, long and silent, where you just take one another in. Your face softens as you stare back at him. You hate to admit it to anyone but his mother, but he _does_ look handsome in his uniform, contrasting perfectly against his tanned skin. How something that stands for such ugliness could look so beautiful, you aren’t sure, but you think it may have just been Gwil.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you say, voice trembling, and his lips quirk up in a smile.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you jab at his chest with a pointed finger. “Swear on it?”

“On my soul,” he nods.

Across the yard, one of the women swirling a drink in her hand heckles, “Kiss her already!”

You spin around. “Oh, buzz off, you nosy old hens!” 

Even from the curb, you can hear Gwilym’s parents laughing and you huff, turning back to him with warm cheeks and embarrassment churning your stomach as the rest of the women cackled, Gwil’s own warm laughter soothing you. “I can already see staying out of trouble without me will be a breeze.” 

You roll your eyes, shifting on your feet and looking up at him sadly. “Don’t be smug.”

With a soft sigh, he gives a noncommittal shrug. “We may as well give them a show, then, don’t you agree?”

You splutter, shoving his chest lightly. “ _What_?”

“Wouldn’t you be chuffed knowing you were the last girl I kissed before I was shipped off?” He raises a brow. “Think of it as a farewell gift.”

Your cheeks are only warmer now and you laugh nervously, playing with your own fingers as you say, “C’mon, Gwil, you’ve got to get going soon, so don’t be silly.” After all, the idea definitely _feels_ silly. He always had been one to tease you in that way, always was the one to chase you around the schoolyard making kissy faces or to hold your hand in class just to see you get flustered. But Gwilym is your best friend. You had never taken him seriously, and he had never been on a mission to be taken seriously. Until now, it seems.

He smiles good-naturedly. “Not even a small one?”

Pursing your lips, you consider his words. You certainly _would_ be pleased knowing you’d been his last kiss before he’d been shipped out, and you’d be in good company. Aside from that, how good he looks before you almost makes you woozy, so you sigh, straightening your posture. “I suppose.”

“Gee, Y/N, you sound so excited,” he teases, and you pout.

“You better kiss me before I change my mind, Private Lee.”

He grins at the title, tentatively reaching for you. Almost awkwardly, knowing not only your neighbors but his parents—and likely yours, from the window—were watching, you shuffle forward, allowing him to wrap an arm around your waist. Feeling him so close makes your whole body warm, and your eyes nearly flutter shut at the feeling, but you force yourself to look at him, at those bright blue eyes searching yours.

His nose brushes yours as he leans in, a delicate breath leaving your lips as he kisses you softly, his palm warming your back as his other hand reaches to cup your face. You melt into him, clutching at his biceps, heart racing at his gentle, content hum. You had never kissed Gwilym—never even thought about it—but now you wonder why. The way you fit against him, how easy it is to kiss him back, it all feels so right that when he pulls away, you don’t even realize that you’re chasing after his lips.

A goofy smile takes over his face and he chances one more quick peck before he’s releasing you, breath bated. 

Your brain feels foggy but you shake your head to clear it, blinking once before you breathe, “Well, I hope that will tide you over.”

Another loud laugh and he’s wrapping you in a crushing hug. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, voice tight, and you squeezed him back, resting your head on his chest.

“Gwilym, we need to go!” His mother yells from the car, and you sniffle, pulling away from him and clenching your teeth to keep from shedding more tears. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he said gently.

Smiling, you nod. “See you then.”

You take a dejected seat on his steps as he makes his way down the walkway. Over his shoulder, he sends you one last look before he’s ducking into the backseat of his parent’s car. 

“Darling, it’s a good thing you’ve got him because you won’t find another husband with that temper,” one of your neighbors quips, a cheap attempt to make you smile. You afford them a watery chuckle, wiping your eyes as you watch them drive down the street.

***

_August 14, 1943  
Dear Y/N,  
You know I’m as humble as they come, but I really think I’ve found where I belong in boot camp. I’m meeting lots of new people, the food isn’t half-bad, and the training I practiced at home is really coming in handy now. All to say, I’m doing really well! I’m even used to being yelled at all the time after Mrs. Aarons taught us together in Sunday school. In fact, I think my drill instructor might even be less strict than she was, and he probably makes better cakes, too._

_My mum said you came by last week to help her cook dinner. I know she was worried about not seeing you around much anymore now that I’m gone, so she was really thrilled about that. She also said that the whole church is talking about our goodbye kiss, as they well should be. I like to think we gave them a rather long-anticipated show, and I would hate to have wasted your time, so I sure hope they’re talking about it._

_I hope they haven’t given you too much trouble since I left. I know how they can be, but I think you said it best when you called them ‘nosy old hens.’ Such a way with words, you have._

_I know it’s not much, but not much has happened! I hope to have many more stories to tell you soon. Tell me what sort of crazy adventures you’ve been going on without me there._

_Love, Gwilym  
P.S. What are they saying about the kiss? I didn’t have much time, but I’d say I gave you a hell of a few seconds. Also, send me a picture. I lied and said I had a girl, and no one believes me because I don’t have a photo of her, and I figure if anyone would be considered my girl, it would probably be you._

The letter is dropped on the bed with a knowing smirk by your father and you’re too excited to hear from Gwil that you can hardly be bothered by your dad. In true Gwilym fashion, you laugh the whole way through, feeling your heart yearn for him. Your whole family had heard you lament relentlessly about it, but it was the deepest longing you had ever felt. As long as you can remember, it had been you and Gwilym, stuck together at the hip like you couldn’t get along without the other. It’s the longest you’ve been apart, and though it had only taken him a week and a half to write you a letter, it felt as though it had been twice that without him at your side.

But something has felt out of place since he left. Since you kissed. It was all just a bit off-kilter. Of course, you miss him, but it ran deeper. You feel a pull to Gwilym, one you had never felt before, least of all to him. Your heart aches at just the thought of him, which is what makes this letter so sweet. You can practically feel him on the paper, through his excited, hurried handwriting, and you feel better just after reading it, after hearing he was okay. You read it over and over, pretending that your cheeks don’t burn at the thought of him telling his friends that you were his girl, and you hope the fluttering of your heart is just excitement to hear from your best friend.

***

_August 22, 1943  
Dear Gwilym,  
I’m glad to hear that you’re staying modest. I hope some of your new friends are keeping your inflated ego in check now that I’m not there to do it. Mrs. Aarons! She’s softened a bit, I think she was just tough on us, which was well deserved. We put her through quite a lot, but it was all for the best because look at you now! I’m really pleased to hear that you’re doing well, we’ve been rather worried about you and I haven’t called around to your parents in a few days, so I’ve been in the dark for a while. Don’t you worry me like that; you promised you’d write as often as you could._

_I did go around to your parents a few days after you left to help with your dad’s birthday; it was a really lovely night. Your mum knows I adore her—and the rest of your family—if anything, I’ll be going over more now that you’re gone. You’re practically my only friend, so I’ll be sticking to my routine of going to your house all the time. Who knows? Maybe by the time you get home, your mum will have replaced you as my best friend._

_Ah, who cares about what the congregation says? But yes, we’ve been the talk of the group. They’ve not said anything to me about it, though. They’ve been going pretty easy on your family and me since you left. Tyler McGaskill ships out in a few weeks, so I’m praying they all forget about it by then. Once they’ve got someone else to sympathize for, you know they’ll hound me with questions._

_Ha, adventures! Not a chance, not without you. I’ve spent more days alone at my house since you left than I have since I was born. It’s not an adventure if you’re not there, so I fear I just don’t have the heart to even try. And anyway, you know none of my friends want to do things like that. I’m playing by different rules now, Gwil._

_Tell me about your friends! What do you guys do when you’re not training? Are you nervous to finish training?_

_Love, Y/N  
P.S. Don’t flatter yourself, Private Lee. It certainly was a hell of a few seconds, but not because you blew my socks off. Also, no! I won’t send you a picture so you can be dishonest, you filthy bastard. I won’t have you sullying my image to men I don’t know by pretending that I would date you. I miss you tons, Gwil. Stay safe._

“That from your girl?” Ben nods at Gwil, and the brunette grins, nodding as he runs a finger over your letter.

You had never been afraid of prodding Gwilym back, and it’s especially prominent in your letter, which he appreciates. He likes the sense of normalcy, and he knows that’s why you’re trying to stay so upbeat in your letters. It’s for him, and his heart practically pounds at the thought. He leans back in his cot, still holding your letter and grinning like a fool, and Ben laughs brightly.

“Christ, Gwil, what’s the deal with this girl? She send you a photo?” Ben waggles his eyebrows suggestively and Gwil chortles, shaking his head easily.

“ _No_ ,” he says, the tail of his laughter breaking up his sentences. “She just...makes me laugh.”

“What’s her name again?” The blonde asks, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats, nodding once. “She pretty?”

Gwil’s eyes close, holding the letter against his stomach. “Beautiful,” he affirms.

Ben smiles over at his friend, though it goes unnoticed. “How long you two been together?”

Gwilym snorts, his shoulders digging into the mattress in a lazy shrug. “We’ve been best friends since we were born. We were practically together even before we were,” he says, peering at his friend through a cracked eye. It’s not entirely a lie; Gwilym meant what he said in his letter: if anyone were to be considered his girl, it would be you. Whether or not those feelings were reciprocated, well, that’s none of Ben’s business.

Ben hums, sitting on the cot beside Gwilym. “You love her?”

“More than anything,” Gwil admits, looking back down at the letter.

“You gonna marry her?”

“Jesus Christ, Jones,” someone else laughs, clapping the blonde on the shoulder. “What’s with the questions?”

“I don’t have a girl!” Ben defends, throwing his hands up. “I need to get my fill somewhere else.” He grins when he turns back to Gwilym, taking a long drag of his cigarette before pulling it from his lips. “So, are you?”

Gwil laughs softly. “I’m certainly going to try.”

***

Over the months, things with Gwilym begin to shift. 

You suppose it must be that you can’t see one another in person, that it’s all on paper, but it feels as though he makes it his mission to make you flush. You know things aren’t easy for him. In fact, things are worse now than they have been since he shipped out, and if it makes him feel better to flirt with you, you’ll do that for him.

It doesn’t help the slow-building adoration in the pit of your stomach, the silly little crush you’ve been harboring since he left. Really, it only makes it worse. It makes you think. Did he think these things when he was home, or was this all coming on because he was lonely?

Shamelessly, you don’t mind the answer. 

_January 31, 1944  
Dearest Y/N,  
We’ve been moving a lot lately; I haven’t been sleeping much, but it’s okay. It hasn’t been raining much anymore, which has made travel easier. I’m proud to be here, to be fighting for my country, but I’m tired. I miss my life, and I miss my family and God, I miss you. So much._

_My dad says your family came over for dinner a few days ago, and that your luck is finally turning around with gin rummy! He was really pleased that you beat him, and I was glad to hear it. You know I adore you, but I’ve truly never met a worse card player in my life. I’m glad to hear you’ve been practicing in all your free time without me._

_Ben’s been complaining about how you send me so many letters and he doesn’t get any from anyone but his mum. He’s requesting letters from you, but I fear that will create a complicated tangle in our relationship. How’s my best mate supposed to write to my girl? I just don’t like it._

_Speaking of, what’s been going on with you? I want to know all about what’s going on at home, what you’re doing. I miss that. How are your friends? Are you still running around with those girls from school? I think you’d do well with having some friends that are close to you. At least, until I come home. Then you’re all mine. But I wouldn’t feel betrayed if someone took my place for a few months._

_Yours, Gwil  
P.S. You’re just being mean by not sending me a photograph at this point. I swear, I won’t even show it to my mates, I just wanna see you. Be a good friend, won’t you? My life is of limited pleasure anymore, it’s just like my selfish friend to hold out on the one thing that would bring me joy. You giving all your pictures to other boys? That might just break my heart, doll._

It makes you smile, how he writes his letters. Always so sentimental. He always saves that sweetness for the post-script, something you had teased him for relentlessly but actually adored. How wonderful, to put the best part of the letter right at the end. You always read with bated breath, waiting to see what sort of affection he’s saved for you this time. It makes you ache for him.

Your friends have finally come to understand the priority that Gwilym holds. And, even before you had, they had come to understand why he holds it. You’d much rather spend a night in, re-reading Gwil’s letters and writing him new ones than go out with them and dance all night. Of course, they had always teased you about it, about how you and Gwilym were meant to be. Even still, you brush them off with a blithe laugh and a shake of your head. Silly crush or not, you wouldn’t allow your mind—or theirs—to run too wild.

And for a while, they let it go, holding on to the thoughts but never sharing them with you. But one night, all piled into your bedroom, Eva finds the shoebox full of his letters.

There’s no convincing them after that.

“ _‘P.S. mum tells me you’ve been going out with that fathead Jack McClaren,’_ ” she giggles out, clutching Gwil’s letter to her chest and speaking in a silly impersonation of him. You flush, pressing your hands to your cheeks. “ _‘What a waste of your time, doll! But I suppose it’s best that you spend all your time with a dud until I get home. I wouldn’t want you marrying some other guy while I’m out.’_ ”

Grace squeals, grabbing another letter from the box while you laughed softly, shaking your head. “He says stuff like this all the time?”

Shrugging, you say, “He’s _always_ said stuff like that. He likes to tease me.”

“ _‘P.S.,’_ ” Leona grins, “ _‘After months of you denying me, I’ve finally won: my mum sent me a photo of you, one she took at the new years party. I don’t know if you saw it before it got sent, but you look great in it.’_ ”

Grace pulls it from Leona’s hands and you make a sound of disdain. “Hey, be careful with them!”

Your friend ignores you and continues what Leona had started, “ _‘Everyone’s been asking me what my girl looks like since I got here, and I have to say that you haven’t disappointed. You’ve certainly lived up to how I’ve described you. You really do look beautiful. I miss that smile.’_ ”

Yeah, you were particularly fond of that one. Your cheeks warm even further and you can’t hide your smile, pulling at the hem of your dress with a dopey grin on your face. “Look at her!” Eva chortles, folding up the letter she holds and reaching for another. “Y/N, whether you’ll admit it or not, you are _smitten_.”

“It’s Gwil!” You laugh, shaking your head and reaching for a letter on your own. “He doesn’t mean it like that.”

Grace shot you an uncharacteristically cold look. “Y/N, we may not know Gwil as well as you know him, but we’ve known him almost as long. We all know what he’s like when he fancies a girl.”

You hadn’t thought of that. Your heart begins to pound. Gwil had always been a sweet talker, but never to you. You’d watched your best friend chase girls all throughout your lives, and as you think of his letters, things begin to make sense. The confusion, the off-kilter feeling your friendship had taken on, it seems to align.

As your friends continue to read, you blink stupidly. Gwilym Lee had been _flirting_ with you.

***

_March 24, 1944  
Dear Gwil,  
Your mum is a traitor; she told me she sent you another picture. Where she got it, I have no idea, but I hope you find it sufficient. _

_I can’t imagine why you keep asking what I’m up to. Life is still boring here, of course. Everything is boring when you’re not here. Things have gotten a little crazy, though. Grace asked me to help plan her wedding, so it’s been something to fill up my days. We’re really sad that you aren’t going to be there! Ed says we’re going to use a scarecrow in place of the best man since you won’t be there. I think it’s only fair; at least the scarecrow won’t subject us to terrible jokes in his speech._

_I miss those silly jokes. I love being with the girls, but it’s not the same. Don’t let your head get big, but I never realized how difficult it was going to be without you._

_I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. I’ve been working extra hard lately, and I feel as though I’m permanently tired these days. I’m tired of a lot of things, like working so much or the constant fear. Mostly, I’m just tired of things not being the way they used to be. I’m tired of the war and I’m tired of you not being here. I usually try not to get too down in these letters, I know that’s not what you need right now, but it’s been a tough few days. Hope you’re doing well, and I greatly look forward to hearing from you._

_Yours, Y/N  
P.S. I’ve been thinking a lot. I’m beginning to fear the women at church were right about us._

The letter paints a much-needed smile on his face, the pictures of you his mother had sent tucked safely in the pocket above his chest. His heart races for an entirely different reason than it has in months. Is that a confession? In the barest possible way, yes. He knows you better than he knows himself—he doesn’t need to think hard to guess what you’re implying. It makes his pulse thrum, his stomach tilt, and his mind race. 

However, he hates to hear that you’ve been feeling down, and he fishes a photo of you out of his pocket, the edges already beginning to curl up from how often he’s turned to it. A thumb runs over the printed page, eyes tracing over your bright smile and ignoring Ben’s intrusive stare. He knew them as well as Gwil did by now with how often he looked over his friend’s shoulder to look at them. Gwilym didn’t mind anymore. Not like he had the first time. In such a bleak life, he couldn’t steal from his friend the simplest pleasure of seeing you.

It’s one of the few things that brings him comfort anymore, the way you slyly smile back at him, standing in a busy crowd in his living room. He sighs, shifting on the hard ground, taking one last look as he prepares to put it back in his pocket, but in a second, a hand reaches around his shoulder and pulls the photograph from between his fingertips.

“Hey!” He huffs, spinning around to reach for their wrist.

Samuel grins at Gwil, holding the picture of you. “Who’s this?” He asks, turning his attention to the photo with a low whistle.

From Gwil’s side, Ben murmurs, “Y/N.”

Gwilym glares at him, but Sam doesn’t notice them, eyes still turned down. He drops to sit beside Gwil, a heavy sigh falling from his lips as he passes the photo back. The exhaustion is palpable between the three of them, silence settling over them. After a moment, Sam reaches into his own pocket and pulls out a photo, handing it to Gwilym tentatively. Ben leans over, the two of them staring down at the picture of a woman, Sam’s arm wrapped around her waist.

“Ruby,” he smiles. Reaching over, he taps the photo of you. “They look like they’d be friends.”

Gwil laughs softly, nodding as he hands back Sam’s photo. He looks at his own photo wistfully, a smile pulling over his face. For a second, he’s only focused on you, transported to a time in which you were smiling at _him_ like that, not some camera. He’s not thinking about the sun beating down on him or the hard ground beneath him, but then someone’s yelling, and he’s brought back to his real life.

***

Your heart races at the sight of the letter in your mum’s hand, your fingers jittery as you reach for it.

It’s late. Much later than they usually come. In fact, it’s been nearly a month since you had heard from Gwil and after the first week, you had assumed he wasn’t going to answer at all. It wasn’t a bomb that should have been dropped in a letter, but it’s easier to say when you don’t have to see him, you find. You had always been too loose with your feelings when it came to your best friend, especially when you were already upset. The melancholy of the overcast days you had lived had left you feeling almost perpetually down when you had written the letter, and what little words you had to offer had flown out of you almost without thought. The confession had been nothing but an endless train of thought that had plagued you for months.

To the untrained eye, to someone who didn’t know you, it would have meant nothing. It could have been something simple, a throwaway thought or a sentence you just threw in to pad the conversation. But it’s weighted to the two of you. _‘The women at church were right about us’_ may as well have meant _‘I think we’re meant to be, I think we should get married and have five children only to force them to go to the same congregation we were forced to go to, and while we’re at it, we may as well just die together.’_

But maybe that’s just you overthinking.

Maybe the line just made Gwil laugh, and maybe he hasn’t written because he’s been too busy. But you can’t find out right away, because your mother holds the envelope just out of your reach with a knowing look. 

You’re exhausted, really. After a long day at work, your friends dragged you out to go dancing with them for the first time in months. All you want is to lay in your bed and read Gwilym’s letter before you fall asleep, but she doesn’t relent when you reach for it, only pulling it further out of your reach.

“Mum,” you sigh, rubbing your forehead. “I’ve had a really long day.”

“And instead of going straight to sleep, you want Gwil’s letter?” 

You laugh quietly, shrugging. “How is that different from any other day?” But your mother doesn’t laugh. Instead, she raises a curious brow, waiting. Any other day, you’d have no problem indulging her, but now, you just huff. “ _Yes_?”

“How is he?” She finally breaks. 

“At war, mum, so he’s certainly not his best,” you murmur, looking at her with sleep-hooded eyes. “Really, I’m exhausted. Can I have my letter?” She frowns, reaching to soothe over your bicep. You can tell that aside from her interest in Gwil, she’s genuinely concerned, so you breathe out sharply, smiling tiredly at her. It’s not fair for you to take out your long days on her. “We can have this conversation tomorrow, I promise.”

She gives you one last knowing look but hands you the letter. Sighing in relief, you smile again and take it from her, turning on your heel to retreat to your room. 

_April 19, 1944  
Dearest Y/N,  
So sorry it’s taken me so long to get back to you. You can only imagine the last few weeks we’ve had here, but all’s well! No need to worry about your picture being sufficient. It’s beautiful, of course. I think I must have the prettiest girl of all the guys in the group._

_I’m crushed to miss the wedding! I know you’ll all have loads of fun, though. Don’t worry about missing out on my jokes, I’ll send a whole page of them for you to read in my place. Take pictures, alright? Make sure to send me a couple. When’s it scheduled? You know I’m nothing if not humble; I’m offended you’d suggest I could be anything but._

_I’m sorry you haven’t been doing well. I hate to hear that, but I’m glad you said something. I want to stay updated on what’s going on with you, even the bad bits. What you really need is a new job, something less physical. I’m sure my dad has some clerical work you could do for the firm. We can’t have you run to the ground, can we? Get feeling better, doll. I miss you reams; I wish there was anything I could do to make you feel better._

_Yours, Gwil  
P.S. Well, it took you long enough to realize that, didn’t it? Think I must have picked up that there was some truth to that when we were 14, and I’ve kind of been waiting for you to come around since. It’s not such a bad thought, though. There are much worse things than the thought of you and I. Can’t think of much that’s any better._

You sleep better tonight than you have in weeks.

***

His own shrouded confession paired with yours changes your relationship. Not as much as it would if the two of you had come out and said what you were both thinking, or if you two were together.

Your friends refuse to let it go, which you don’t mind so much. It had done nothing but get on your nerves before, but everything feels a little lighter now. There have been no real confessions, nor could you expect there to be, not when he was still so far away, not when the two of you weren’t really discussing the state of your relationship. Even so, you can’t help but feel a little giddy about it all. You still feel as though you’re running yourself ragged between work and trying to act like your life is normal, but you’re feeling more positive throughout your days.

Gwil, however, feels like he's trudging through life. Every next day is gloomier than the last, and it begins to feel like his only refuge are the letters he’s receiving, updates about his family’s lives and the jokes you’re writing to him and the photos you’ve finally given in and sent. His letters seem to stay the same length, but they’re much less about his life; he feels that the only thing that can make him feel right anymore is to just read your rambling, to ask you questions and picture you, bright and smiling, living your life. He’s much more wistful, and if he wasn’t so hazy from the exhaustion, from how cold and tired he is, he’d be a little embarrassed at how overly-affectionate he is.

It doesn’t matter to you. In fact, it makes your heart ache for him. His actual letters get shorter and his post scripts get longer, sweeter, softer. It makes you wonder how you had spent your whole life with Gwil by your side and never once thought of him as anything other than your best friend. More importantly, how could Gwilym Lee have hid from you how adorably softhearted he is? You always knew how sentimental he could get, but never toward another person. That information was for the girls he had dated exclusively. Now that you’re privy to his sweetness, it makes you long for all the years you had missed of it.

_May 30, 1944  
Dearest Y/N,  
Dad says you found yourself a job at Mr. Wright’s office, how has that been? Anything must be better than what you were doing before, but I hope they’ve been treating you well. How’s your family? You’ve not mentioned them in quite a while._

_Ben’s been whinging much more than usual. He’s not quite what I’m used to when it comes to having someone at my side, but he’s not so bad. He insists on meeting you when this is all over and I think it’s one of the only good ideas he’s ever had. The two of you would get along, I think. I said that to him once and he’s never let it go; he’s got this crazy idea in his head that he’s going to steal you from me. I think he’s gone silly, but maybe he has a point. Maybe not meeting him would be better, yeah?_

_Yours, Gwil  
P.S. Of course, McClaren can’t get over you! I could have predicted that one from a thousand miles away. In fact, I think I may have warned you about him. It just goes to prove that you ought to heed my warnings. You may think you’ve got it all figured out, but I know how that meatball works. He’s been the same since we were kids. I won’t say I told you so, only to save myself some grief the next time I’m wrong about something. You can tell him to buzz off. Tell him you’ve got a **real** man, one who’s at war and everything. _

_You couldn’t possibly imagine how much I miss you, but if you feel so inclined, I’d encourage you to use your imagination. Mum says I should stop teasing you so much; says you’re real sensitive and all, but I’d like to imagine that I’m keeping some normalcy in our relationship by busting your chops. Someone has to do it, or your head will get all fat. That’s the real problem with girls who know they’re pretty…_

Truth be told, you don’t mind so much that he likes to tease you. He’s right. It wouldn’t feel like you were talking to Gwil if he didn’t prod you a bit, and it only feels right to poke at one another through your letters since you can’t do it in person.

You’re so caught up in him telling you you’re pretty that you almost forget that he’s called himself your man, and you think that’s a title you don’t mind letting him carry for a while.

***

_June 10th, 1944  
Gwilym,  
I know you can’t tell me all your plans, but a little warning would have been nice. Lord knows there were plenty of ways you could have told me without giving anything away. I’m so **angry** at you. I knew the risks when you left, of course, but I didn’t realize how horrific it was going to be, knowing that you’re out there, every single day, risking your life. Knowing that everyday, I run the risk of losing my best friend and you run the risk of dying. It’s too hard to bear anymore, Gwil. I don’t know how you do it._

_But I know you don’t want to talk about that. I know that these letters are to take your mind off of what you’re going through. It’s just hard to stay so positive all the time. Things here are getting bleaker by the day. Usually, I would turn to you when I can’t handle it all, but you’re gone. I just need you._

_P.S. McClaren already thinks I won’t go out with him again because of you, so I suppose it isn’t entirely unbelievable. At the very least, you’re a great excuse for not wanting to see any of these boys again. Not that I’m seeing any boys right now, mind you. Don’t go getting yourself in a tizzy like you always used to about those other girls. Poor Jack didn’t know what he was getting into when we went out. I suppose I didn’t, either._

_Don’t you worry about me getting a big head. I think you’ve forgotten all those years you teased me relentlessly. You were a mean-spirited kid, Gwilym Lee, and you’ve got lots of years to make up for when you get home. Thinking of it now, I truly don’t know why I stuck by your side. Probably because your dad bought me ice cream every time you made me cry. I’m just getting nostalgic now, but I’ve been thinking about you even more than usual this week._

_I miss you. Be safe for me, okay?_

You can’t lie, especially not to Gwilym. Life _is_ getting bleak. Especially with the news of the storm in Normandy. Anymore, it feels like all you do is work and write letters and worry. And now, you’ve got him on your mind even more than usual, as if that’s even possible. You know things must be crazy over there, too crazy for him to sit down and write you a silly love letter.

No, you can’t blame him for not writing to you. But it doesn’t calm the storm deep in your gut, the constant churning of your stomach when you think of him. June, you expect. The letters sometimes take a while to get to you. That’s normal. At the latest, you expect his letter only a few weeks after you write yours. But June comes and goes without a letter, to either you or his family. 

You try not to wind up his mother too much. You’re over often, more often nowadays than when he first got drafted, to help with things around the house or to play rummy with his dad. The lot of you talk about his letters often, comparing them to try to get a better idea of how he’s doing out there, since he refuses to go into much detail. In all honesty, you’re just happy to have someone to commiserate with. She’s just as worried as you are—more so—and you hate to make her worry. You spend most nights reassuring her only to go home and worry on your own. If Gwil was around, _he_ would be consoling you, but he isn’t. So you hold it all in, praying and crying and waiting for a letter.

Of course, it’s always been a possibility that he wouldn’t come home to you. You thought you had come to terms with that, but now every moment of every day is spent feeling like you can’t breathe. More than ever, he’s all you think about.

It feels like your days, which pass like weeks anyway, drag on. By the time mid-July rolls around, you’re running yourself ragged; you’re doing everything you can to distract yourself from the fact that your best friend is missing in action. You’re working overtime every day, going out with your friends every night, and spending nearly all of your spare time with your family, who work just as hard to keep your mind off him. 

Being around Gwilym’s family begins to feel suffocating. They had been a second family to you since you were born; you felt just as much at home with them as you did with your own family. However, now it’s just too much. You already spend too much time wondering where he is, what he’s doing, if he’s okay, why he isn’t writing to you. As real as it is for you, it’s infinitely worse for them. Understandably, it’s all they can think about. They spend every waking moment agonizing about their son, their brother, their family. A place that used to be your escape was now the home of the very conversation you were trying to avoid: where is Gwilym?

They haven’t sent anyone to notify his family yet. It might be the only thing giving you hope anymore. Until they send someone with that dreaded letter, you’re safe. _He’s_ safe, at least as safe as he can be. For now, you wait. For a letter, a messenger, the end of the war. You can’t decide which.

***

Gwilym is miserable. Truly, deeply, down to his very soul, he’s bored out of his mind.

At the very least, he thought recovering from a near-fatal shot would give him enough time to write letters to you, to let someone know that he’s okay, but they aren’t running anyone out of Normandy, that he knows of, least of all someone to take mail. No one is even getting off the _beach_ , unless they’re dead, and stationary quickly became a rare commodity, one that he couldn’t convince the nurses to score for him. “Focus on healing,” they would say. “Don’t wear yourself out with writing.”

He can’t really focus on _anything_ with the constant influx of new patients, and they way his shoulder and chest ache constantly. The infirmary isn’t getting nearly enough painkillers and subsequently, neither is Gwil. It’s better that he hurts than he’s drowsy, he figures, but he won’t act like he’s enjoying his time, either. 

Your pictures are a constant fixture on his bedside tray and he knows you must be worrying himself sick. Between you and his mother, most of his days are spent thinking about home, about how stressed you and his family must be after not hearing from him for so long. They had managed to get your last letter to him, and though you truly do sound miserable—and he knows you’re angry—he reads it multiple times a day. He just likes to read what you’ve written, even if he knows you’re not happy.

He’s going to be fine, for the moment. That, at least, he knows for sure. Part of him had hoped that they’d discharge him while he healed, but they’re desperate to keep as many people as they can. Gwil will be back practically back to himself in only a few days, hopefully. He’d really rather be out _doing_ something, fighting for his country, than lying in an overcrowded infirmary, spending every day staring at a wall.

Aside from the soreness in the chest, the late summer humidity makes it almost unbearable to breathe, especially in poorly ventilated building they’ve all been packed in. Gwil is miserable, and he makes sure everyone knows it. The nurses, though, all adore him, of course. He’s charming, even when he’s complaining, and of course, it’s nice to get attention from someone who isn’t Ben, but it only further emphasizes an already gaping hole in his chest.

Yeah, he likes to make the nurses laugh and he likes it when they read to him and he likes that they always give him extra pudding, but it doesn’t feel right. He isn’t flirting—honestly, he isn’t sure he even knows how to do that anymore—but he knows they are and it makes his stomach churn. It doesn’t feel right to give that idea to anyone but you. You’re the only one he wants to make laugh, or flush, or say his name in that little laugh you do. 

They all know about you, though. You’re all he talks about, pretty much, and they’ve all seen the photographs of you he keeps in his sight at all times. It’s cute, they think. None of them are _really_ trying to move on Gwilym, not when he harps on about you all day long, but it’s easy to tease him a little bit. 

When he moves, he can’t help but groan, the tightness of his chest forcing a dull ache to settle over his upper body. Beside his bed, a nurse with shifting eyes cracks a little smile. “Still sore?” She asks, careful of your photos when she picks up his lunch from his bedside tray. He smiles smally in her direction. “You’re healing well, though. You’ll be sore for a few more days but you’re on the mend.”

“Thank God,” he breathes. “I’m sick of this.”

“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed our company so much,” she laughs, sitting on the edge of his bed. 

He rolls his eyes and nudges her with his leg. “I’d enjoy it more if you gave me anything to do.”

The nurse raises a brow and smooths out her skirt. “We’re giving you time to think, which—if you forgot—is not something you often get out there.” She motions to the door.

She’s not wrong, but he feels like he’s thought himself into a hole by now. He’s definitely healed up—his bandages are coming off clean now, which is a new development—and he’s ready to get back out there. They’ve already been in Normandy for two months, which means it’s been two months since he’s written to his family, two months that you’ve all been worrying about him, no doubt. He’s only one person, this he knows, but he can’t help but think he can be doing more. He wants to get himself off this godforsaken island, or at least get himself somewhere he can write to you, or be with someone he actually knows. He’ll never admit it, but he even misses Ben and his incessant whining.

“I don’t need to think anymore,” he sighs, head lolling. “I need to do something.”

She pats his shin and stands up. “Any day now, Private.”

Again, he’s left alone with his thoughts and he tries to force down the irritability bubbling in his chest. Closing his eyes, he releases a sharp breath. He could do well with more rest, but as he tries to fall asleep, his subconscious is fervently drafting a letter to you.

***

Another day without an officer was as good a day as any. At the very least, they have to know where he is if they haven’t sent a letter with bad news yet, which puts you at ease if only a little.

Both your families sit around the Lee’s table, your parents laughing easily along with a story your best friend’s father shares. You try to smile along, really, but you still haven’t gotten used to him not sitting across from you, flicking his mum’s mushy peas at you until you were kicking him. It always got under your skin, something he was most exceptional at, but now, you long for that. You hate whatever this is now, without him, both families pretending everything is okay when he’s not here getting you in trouble. It’s too quiet.

Without making much of a fuss, you excuse yourself quietly from the table. Before Gwilym was gone, you never would have gotten away with leaving in the middle of a meal, but the rules have all changed since he left. Like no one was denying anyone anymore. Part of you reveled in it, almost a sense of freedom, but more than that, it was just a reminder that things were different now, that they probably wouldn’t be the same again.

The air is thick when you slip out onto the stoop. It feels more humid this summer, especially when it was later in the day, but the air is still nice. The wireframe chairs Gwil’s mother had set up had come in handy many times, but none more than the past few months. When you need a break.

To your right, the familiar creak of the front door echoes through the night air and the spicy cologne is homely enough to make you relax. In the chair beside yours, Mr. Lee sits with a quiet grunt.

For a few minutes, the two of you sit in silence. There are a lot of things you both want to say, but maybe not to each other, and maybe not right now, so you take in the quiet sounds of the suburb and look up at the stars, neither of you acknowledging the other for a few moments.

“My dear,” he sighs, not glancing over at you. “Such poor table manners.”

You snort a laugh. “My greatest apologies.”

For a long moment, neither of you say anything, but you know you must have the same train of thought. Though you’ve spent the night joking, sharing wry looks with one another, it’s obvious to both of you that you’re not joking anymore. The air feels heavier and you chance a look over at him, taking in his likeness to your best friend as you wait for him to say something. Finally, he shakes his head. “Goddamn war,” he mutters, looking over at you. “Doesn’t do anything but tear families apart.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. 

“He’s a good kid.” Mr. Lee nods. “I trust him to keep himself safe.”

It isn’t that simple and you both know it, but you don’t say anything, turning your attention back to the stars. Inside, your family and his wife have quieted down, the laughter of the night now silent, and you listen to the crickets, your breathing steady. A whole year since he had left and things still feel offbeat. You suppose that a year apart can be harder to get used to than a lifetime together.

When a few minutes pass and the laughter inside begins again, Mr. Lee leans a little to his side and reaches into the breast pocket of his jacket. From it, he produces a deck of cards and sets it gently on the matching wireframe table between the chairs, smiling slyly.

“Another game of rummy before those fuddies finish dinner?”

He always had reminded you so greatly of Gwilym. With a grin, you swipe the deck from the table and begin to shuffle in the low light streaming from the window.

***

It’s good news. God knows you need good news right now.

With the battle in Normandy ending in your favor, things feel lighter around town. The congregation sings a little louder, smiles a little brighter, and talks a little longer. All around you, people step lighter. It is not a victory, but it is an upper hand. One your people take with great pride. Even you, you must admit, are feeling better. 

You hope that, if Gwilym is still fighting, he’ll find a way to write to you. Selfish, of course, but so true, it consumes you. It’s been too long, but a piece of you knows he’s still out there, ready to come home. Ready to come back to you. You can only pray he does so soon.

At the very least, the letter in your mailbox will do.

You could scream at the sight of his scribbled handwriting, but instead, you rip it from the box and run into the house, ducking under your father’s arm as you make your way to your bedroom. 

“Y/N!” Your mom cries after you.

You don’t answer, slamming your door closed behind you as you ripped open the envelope. It almost feels like coming home, seeing those familiar words on the page. Your hands shake, your heart pounds, and your breathing is shaky as you sit on the edge of your bed.

_September 9, 1944  
My dearest,  
Too long I’ve imagined what I would write to you once I finally had the chance, and now it seems to have escaped me. God, I missed you. Deeply, with great intensity._

_You should know that since I’ve last spoken to you, I thought of you endlessly, every single day. The nurses got to know you well. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you that we were going to Normandy, but I often think it’s better that you don’t know many things about life here. I hate to let you worry. You can only imagine the climate. It was absolute madness. There was hardly a moment to rest and barely any supplies. It’s why I didn’t write, though you have to know that I bribed the nurses quite a lot to give up their personal stationary, to no avail._

_Tell me about what’s been happening with you! I’d love to be caught up on the happenings of your life. How’s the wedding planning? Have you started classes yet? Are you still working at the firm? Tell me all about it. I fear that life is very much the same as always here. I’ve missed the escapism your letters bring to me. It’s easier to pretend I’m still part of the team when you’re the one telling me all about the fun you’re having without me, ha! I want to hear everything—even if it’s just how angry you are with me._

_You still beating my dad at rummy? I’d love to hear that, he’s getting too cocky. I’m hoping you knock him down enough that by the time I get home, I’ll be able to swoop in for a win._

_I had a lot of time to think while I was healing in the infirmary. I think it’s time we talk about what’s going on with us. However, I pray it’s as simple as I would assume it is; I know how I feel, and I hope you know how you feel. If we’re on the same page, isn’t there only one step to take? Write back soon.  
Yours, Gwil_

_P.S. I love you. Another thing I had time to think of in the infirmary. I suppose it’s best to tell you in writing so you can’t reject me outright, yeah?_

If you thought your heart was racing before, this must be what a heart attack feels like. Simultaneously, it feels like you’re light as air and have a thousand pounds on your shoulders. You fall on your back, clutching the letter to your chest. _He loves you_. Your own best friend.

Maybe you knew, subconsciously. Neither of you had ever said it outright, but you weren’t sure if you needed to. It had been pretty clear, you assumed. The two of you had always been good at conveying a message without coming right out and saying it; you had spent years doing it around other people, but never when it was just you two. You suppose this is new territory for you.

You furrow your brows, a gleeful grin on your face. Outside your room, you can hear your parents talking—likely about you—but you hardly care. All you think about right now is _Gwilym_ , and for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel anxious about him. You feel right.

The thought of going to sleep without writing him back makes your stomach lurch and your hands itch to reach for your pen. They’re still shaking as you set up your stationary on your desk, sit at your seat, and begin your response.

***

_September 16th, 1944  
My dear Gwilym,  
Don’t you dare think I’ll let this one go. I’m almost embarrassed to admit how low I allowed myself to get while I was waiting for you to write. You can’t leave me like that again, you understand? Also, don’t you dare think you’re getting out of telling me about how you got to know the nurses, and how they got to know me._

_The wedding is nearly planned, all that’s left is to just do the damn thing. Grace is slowly but surely losing her mind but I think Ed is ready, which is nice. It’s almost annoying to watch them, especially now; they’re more affectionate than ever and being alone around them is pretty unbearable. I’m biding my time until you get home and we become the most annoying pair of the lot again._

_I started classes a couple of weeks ago, so I cut down my hours at the firm, which has been nice. I really like my classes, but I wish you were here to help me with them. You always were better with schoolwork, and I greatly miss the nights spent with you tutoring me. They’re a need right now._

_I’m not angry with you; I have no right to be, do I? God, I’m just happy to hear from you. You can only imagine how I felt when I thought I lost the only person who knows me. I hope you’re healing well. Knowing you’re okay, that you’re out there and still thinking of me, it quells any anger I could possibly feel toward you._

_I won’t ask you what it’s like. I know you don’t like to talk about it, and I’m not sure I could handle hearing about it. Thinking about you there, it just breaks my heart. Any details might completely derail me. However, yes, I have been beating your dad at rummy. He’s not even a sore loser about it, I think he’s just pleased to have at least a little bit of a challenge during the games. I’m sure he’s letting me win—or not cheating when he deals anymore—but I’ll take what I can get._

_We have been doing this dance for quite a while, haven’t we? Before you left, I had never even thought of us as anything other than best friends. I don’t know if it was the kiss, or the letters, or having you so far away, but I know now that you are the only person who understands me in every single way. You’ve always been the only person I want to go to, and I think Mrs. Davens said it best to us when she said a friendship was the strongest foundation for a relationship. If you agree, and if you think that’s something you want, I suppose you can stop lying to your friends about me being your girl._

_It will sound infinitely better when it’s true, don’t you think?_

_Yours, Y/N  
P.S. As though I could ever reject you. You would never let me live it down. I love you._

Gwilym feels as though his heart is about to beat out of his chest. Across from him, Sam clutches his own letter from Ruby, and Ben watches Gwil carefully, waiting.

“Well?” He huffs. “How is she?”

“Good,” Gwil breathes, his cheeks pink as he rereads the post script for the fifteenth time. _I love you_. “Perfect.”

“Sam?”

Their friend beams, hardly looking up from his letter. “God, she’s angry.”

Ben and Gwilym laugh, and the brunet holds the letter tightly to his chest. How long he had waited to hear those words, and even just reading them nearly sends him into a tizzy. You had exchanged those words thousands of times throughout your life, but never with such weight. Never in the way you say them now. Before your letter, he was sure he couldn’t adore you more, but he could be knocked over under the weight of his affection now. 

His eyes slip closed, a blissful smile spreading across his face. The way he feels about you had long been something he held close to his chest, something he refused to expose to anyone else. It was a secret he had always planned to hide forever, but now it’s out there. You know he loves you. Even more importantly, you love him too.

Ben whines, waving the letter from his mum at his friends. “Great! Both of you are in love, who cares? What about me?”

Gwil rolls his eyes and claps the blonde on the shoulder. “Don’t you have bigger things to worry about right now? Maybe the war you’re fighting in?”

Ben glares at Sam when he cackles, a heavy boot kicking at him. “Fuck off. You only say that because you have girls to distract you from this.”

Folding up his letter, Gwil sighs tiredly. “Y/N and I have a friend that you might like. Leona.”

Beside him, Ben raises a brow. “She funny?”

“Yes.”

“Cute?”

“Yes.”

“Good taste?”

“If she’d like you? No,” Sam cuts in. 

While Ben sinks down in the dirt, huffing, Gwil and Sam laugh. For the first time in the longest time, Gwilym finally feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief. There’s a newfound fire in him—something to look forward to—and he thinks that all he can do is stay alive to get home to you.

***

_October 6, 1944  
My dearest, Gwilym,  
Ben **does** seem like someone Leona would be interested in. Even if he didn’t, I’d want you to bring him around anyway. Sam, too! I have to thank them for getting you through this. It must be hard for them and all, since you’re such a pain in the ass. I can only imagine you’ve gotten worse, so I think they deserve a little recognition. Maybe when you all get discharged, they can come into town for a few days. Sam could bring Ruby! The three of you sound thick as thieves. I’d love to get a chance to run around with you for a few days. I’ll be holding out hope._

_Classes are going well! I still haven’t really decided what I’m studying, but I’ve still got time. Mr. Wright says I have a job at the office for as long as I want one, and I’ve really enjoyed my time there. I definitely won’t stay there forever, but I don’t think it’s a job I’d mind holding onto for a little while longer…_

_I’m really pleased that you’ve healed up well. You nearly gave us all heart attacks here, trying to play off that injury. You can trust that we won’t let that one go. Your mum says that you aren’t getting out of her sight at all once you get home, which will undoubtedly make our dates a little more difficult, but I think it’s a challenge we’ll be able to overcome._

_Been thinking of you extra lately. Hope you’re thinking of me, too._

_Yours, Y/N  
P.S. I’ve been thinking about your birthday coming up; I know they’re expecting us at the soda shop, but it almost feels wrong to go alone. I’d hate to break tradition, though. Maybe I’ll still go. I don’t know; it felt weird without you there last year. I just miss you. I’m waiting for you every day, Gwil. I love you._

He’ll never get used to reading it. He thinks the first time he really hears it from you, he might pass out. It’s just another thing to keep him going through his days. The thought of you, waiting at home for him, _loving_ him, well, he thinks that could get him through a hundred wars.

***

You thought after Gwil left, things couldn’t get more different. Back when you walked that line between completely platonic and flirting. Now, though, your relationship has almost evolved completely without changing at all. There are ‘I love you’s and talks of dates, but Gwilym is still your best friend. It’s all the excitement of a new relationship and none of the nervousness, because nervousness doesn’t exist between the two of you. It never had. 

You had never been the kind of person to let a boy change your mood, but the boys you’d dated had never been Gwilym. Though you never thought of him as anything more than your best friend, things feel right now. Like something had clicked into place that you didn’t even know wasn’t there. 

Both sets of parents have to know that something is up, based on the sly smiles they share with one another, but you haven’t mentioned it, and you’re sure Gwil—sweet, private Gwil—hasn’t either. It must be how light you feel. Having him away is still so heavy, weighing on your shoulders every day, but you’re looser with your smiles now, no longer slipping away from dinners or hiding in your bedroom. Still, they say nothing. They graciously allow you to live in your bubble for a bit longer.

It seems the only downside to your new relationship is that you’re proving right all the nosy women from church, who still ask you about Gwilym every time they see you. Even so, you think you can live with that. You can live with being wrong about something if it means you get Gwil in return. It may be the easiest trade you’ve ever made.

Gwil’s birthday flies in almost without you realizing, and you finally decide to go to the soda shop with Eva instead. You and Eva seem to stick together the most nowadays. With Grace newly married and Leona spending all her spare time with the boys she meets at school (“Just until Gwil’s handsome war friend comes home!” She always teases), you settle into an easy pattern with Eva. She reminds you of Gwilym in some ways. She taunts you far less, but she has the same countenance, easy and comforting and ready to listen. 

Though your days still feel longer than possible, you become used to your new routine. Not the loneliness, never the loneliness, but work and then school and then home. Sometimes out with your friends, but less so now. Oftentimes, a lot of nights end with you and Eva watching a movie, or playing rummy with Gwil’s dad. Overall, it’s not a bad way to fill your days, for the time being. It isn't forever, which you’re grateful for, but it reminds you of the relationships you’ve forgotten to cultivate while you and Gwilym have spent your whole lives together.

Gwil spends his birthday how he spends most days, deflecting questions about his personal life (not that he really has one anymore) from Ben and Sam. The three of them have eased into the perfect ebb and flow of conversation, where Ben overshares and Sam makes fun of him and Gwil keeps to himself. His life isn’t a secret, not even close, but it almost feels as though he’d be tainting the idealism of his real life by sharing it in such a dark place. He doesn’t want the war, the soldiers, to know about him. That was for him to hold close to his chest. If he met Sam and Ben somewhere else, he decides, they might already know all about him, and maybe when they visit him after the war, he will open up. Until then, he’ll laugh along with their stories and smile wryly when they ask for his, and he’ll keep his life to himself like a daydream he can escape to.

***

_January 12, 1945  
My dearest, Y/N,  
I heard from my mother that the New Year’s party was quite successful this year, and that you did a wonderful job helping her plan it. She’s just thrilled with how close the two of you have gotten since I’ve left. She has always adored you, but hearing her gush about the two of you planning a party together thrills me to no end. I must be the luckiest guy in the world to have the two of you, and for the two of you to have each other._

_Congratulations on finishing your first term of school! Of course, I won’t be there for the one starting now, but I’ll let myself hope I can be there for the next one. I never used to hope, but it’s one of the only things that gets me through my day anymore. That, and you. I don’t have to hope for you anymore._

_Ben’s been talking loads about how excited he is to finally meet you. Turns out that bastard caught hold of a couple letters you sent me, and he’s taken quite the liking to you. He says he can’t wait to meet you so the two of you can team up against me. He annoys the piss out of me, really, but I can’t wait either._

_My mum **had** said something about us that made me think she knew. Personally, I don’t mind so much our families knowing. I’m glad they do, I think it’s about time. However, the women from church? That’s what I worry about. Our families will keep quiet about it until I get home, but I’m already dreading all the questions we’re going to have to stave off about our relationship when that happens. Until then, let’s keep it to ourselves. It’s the way it’s meant to be._

_Yours, Gwilym  
P.S. You don’t know how much I needed that picture you sent me, sweetheart. You looked gorgeous; you always do, but especially at the New Year’s parties. I’m thinking of you every second, desperately wishing for the day this war is over so I can come home to you. I hope you’re doing well, my love. _

Ben and Sam practically force Gwil to show them the photograph you send, and, as he expects, it only proves to make them gush about you. Ruby sends one to Sam, too, and the more Gwil thinks about it, what he assumed was a throwaway line in a conversation lingers in his mind. He really thinks the two of you would be friends, especially judging by how eager you are to have Ruby join Sam on his trip to meet the two of you. According to Sam, his girl is equally as excited. The thought makes a mindless smile cross his face. He had grown to love Sam as much as he loved the friends he grew up with, and he could practically see the four of you at a table, you and Ruby ganging up against him and Sam.

Until then, holding your picture close to his heart is enough. He waited his whole life for you. He thinks he can wait until the end of the war.

***

The winter isn’t nearly as brutal as the one before, but it still bites to the bone when it snows. You’ve convinced your mum to allow you to use the car for the winter, especially since she isn’t going anywhere, which makes your life the slightest bit easier. Still, you hate to drive in the snow, and driving back and forth from work and school and home does run the car a little ragged.

Finally, the days warm a little and the snow turns to rain, and another spring has come in. On the warmer, sunnier days, you and Eva study outside, and even with your final exams coming up, you’re practically bursting with excitement. More than you are anxious, you’re excited to finally have a little bit of free time. Even with your summer work schedule, you’ll have most of your day to do whatever you please. 

What free time you have now is either spent with Eva or your or Gwil’s family. If you and Eva aren’t at the movies, you’re cooking dinner with Gwil’s mum or working on helping your mother around the house. It feels good to spend time with them, to laugh and dance around the kitchen and to have someone to lean against. Your family had always been close to Gwil’s—you don’t know that the two of you would be so close if they weren’t—but ever since he left, it feels as though the two families have merged. A lot of dinners are shared, whether you’re all gathering in the same kitchen or you’re shuffling casserole dishes across the street.

Between rummy with Gwil’s dad and spending so much time with his mum, you pray to God that everything works out between you two. You want to live like this for the rest of your life.

***

“Shit!” Ben cries, whipping his helmet off to the side to wipe the sweat off his forehead. “It’s hot.”

Gwil can’t help but roll his eyes. Of _course_ , it’s hot. It’s nearly always hot anymore, especially in their heavy uniforms, but Ben’s inability to not complain only bothers him, so he doesn’t respond. Summer comes in sweltering, hotter than usual, he thinks. You haven’t mentioned the weather in your letters, likely because unlike him, you have other things to think about, but he wonders what it’s like at home. God, he longs for the day he goes home and remembers how to form thoughts about things other than the weather, or how he wants to hit Ben, or when the mail is coming in. 

“Obviously, it’s hot,” Sam says, cutting a glare at Ben. “You’re wearing layers in June. We’re _all_ hot.”

June. The thought could make Gwilym sigh. Only a few months short of two years since he had been drafted, and he’s exhausted. He knew when he left that he would likely be out until the war ended or he died, but he hadn’t quite realized how much longer this war was going to last. He’s sick of the monotony of it all, but he figures the last time he escaped monotony, he had been shot.

Lying in the infirmary sounds like a dream now. A retreat from the sun, and from Ben and Sam’s constant bickering. Gwil wonders what he’d have to do to get sent back there, and the thought makes an amused smile quirk on his lips. Two years ago, he never would have laughed at the thought of his mortality, but a lot can change in only a few weeks in war, let alone years. For a few moments, he manages to tune out Ben and Sam arguing with one another about something inconsequential, and he closes his eyes, leaning back in his cot.

 _Any day now_ , he promises himself. _Any day and the war will be over. I can go home._

With a sigh, he prays it’s true this time.

Despite the almost unbearable heat, summer doesn’t crawl by in the same way winter does. They’ve got a little more daylight, a little more time to actually relax when they aren’t moving, which he appreciates. He had never been one to just sit down; he wasn’t stagnant, he always had to be doing something. But the constant movement brought out an appreciation for sloth that he had never quite felt before. Now, he relishes in the time he can spend sitting down, his eyes drooped closed or scanning the horizon lazily. 

Yes, summers are better even during the war. It’s the simplest of pleasures, one he’ll gladly accept. He finds pleasure in the mundane now. Passing of days—every new day means he was one closer to being home—and fresh water and mail. _Especially mail_. There’s finally a break from the heat when he receives another of your letters.

_August 14, 1945  
My dear Gwil,  
Classes start soon! It’s been wonderful to have days full of nothingness this summer, and I admit that I’ll greatly miss the late nights drinking tea on the stoop with your mum, I am rather glad to be going back. I’m getting bored of the work at the office, and it’ll be nice to have something to split my days with. _

_I went to dinner at Ed and Grace’s this week, and let me tell you that I don’t know how much longer I can handle being around them alone. They invite me to make me feel less lonely but once I’m there, it’s like they completely forget about me. I wouldn’t mind it so much if you were here to make fun of them for the way they act together, but I suppose that will have to wait a little while. You have much to make up on._

_The bake sale for the church went well! As expected, your mum’s cupcakes sold out within a couple of hours. You can rag on Mrs. Aarons and her cake as much as you want, but I have to admit that she’s improved if only a little bit since we were in Sunday school._

_I’m sorry I don’t have much to say. Not much has been going on, really. I’ll try to shake things up around here to give you something interesting to read about in the next letter!_

_Yours, Y/N  
P.S. You’re lucky I’m already in love with you, Gwil, or you’d be booted to the curb in no time. You bullied me enough when we were kids, give me a break now! You’ll spend the rest of our lives making it up to me, starting the second you get home._

***

Two years and a few weeks since he had been drafted. Just a week short of one year since the letter in which he had confessed his love for you. He thinks there’s no better time for the war to end.

The whole group of them buzz with the news, drinks flowing and men yelling and laughter, more laughter than he’s heard since he left home. Gwil still can’t feel anything other than shock. Two years, he’s been away, and now it hits him. He’s going home. After so long, the thought of going home crossed his mind often, but it always felt wishful, like it was something that would never happen. 

It isn’t today, and it isn’t tomorrow. Hell, it wasn’t even this month, probably. But Gwilym is going home.

As for his home, well, you nearly miss the news. Of course, it’s impossible to miss something like that, but you miss the announcement. Gwil’s mum always preferred real conversation over the artificial company of the stereo, and while she bakes, you sit at the table, content to listen to her talk.

You hear your mother coming before she’s even in the house, crying your names loudly before she swings the door open. With furrowed brows, Gwil’s mum wipes the flour from her hands and you stand, the two of you rushing to meet your mum in the living room.

“Mum?”

“Did you hear?” She gasps, clutching at her chest. “Did you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Gwil’s mum asks, shaking her head. She grabs your mother’s elbow, steadying her. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s over,” she whispers, looking between you and her friend. “They signed the papers this morning. The war is over.”

Suddenly, you feel dizzy, your head spinning as you look at her. Over? The war had been going on for six years, a constant cloud looming over your life, and now it’s over? And then, as though it’s a punch to the mouth, you realize with a jolt. “Gwil,” you breathe, looking over at his mum. “It’s over. He’s coming home?”

Outside, you hear the women from the church squawking, and you feel like you could be washed away in this feeling, floating and weightless and perfect. He’s coming home.

***

Three long months of nothing but letters all lead up to one day, one perfect day. Gwil doesn’t have much to do besides write letters, and you’ll often get two or three from him before you’ve even finished replying to one. Each as sweet as the last, they do nothing but thrill you for his return. _P.S._ , he writes in one, _I’m taking you to that soda shop the moment I get home. I want to start our forever as soon as possible._ How could you ever say no to that?

It’s cold on the platform, but all the people huddled around you warm you up a little bit. Aside from that, the blood rushing in your ears hardly leaves you shivering. In fact, you might be sweating a little under your coat, but you aren’t sure. You can’t find it in yourself to care, anyhow. You’re too excited.

The tell tale rumbling of the ground beneath your feet tells you everything you need to know. They’re almost here.

In the train, Gwil’s cheeks are flush with laughter and excitement, Ben kicking his shin gently under the table. He’s only a minute away from the station, from being able to go home and see his family and _you_. There’s nothing to do but laugh; the glee he feels practically forces its way out of his body, his laughter light and bright as the station comes into view, crowded with people waiting for their marines. He grins.

The train rolls to a shaky stop, and they both gaze out the window for a moment, waiting for the bustle of the other men grabbing their bags to die down. It’s busy, loud, and Gwil’s happy to just watch people for a moment, up until he sees a familiar face, anxious but still smiling, and he shoots to his feet. 

“Holy shit,” he breathes. 

Ben’s green eyes follow him anxiously, glancing back out the window. “What?”

“Y/N is here,” Gwil exclaims, pressing a palm to the glass. You’re on your toes, watching the people filtering out of the train, and Ben searches frantically for you. It’s hard to say whether he’s just been away from you for so long or if you actually look different, but Gwil swears he’s never seen you look so beautiful, even from a distance.

Finally, Ben catches sight of you and breaks into a grin. “Well, go! Go! What are you doing?”

Flustered, Gwil reaches for his bag, only looking over at his friend for a moment. “I’ll write, okay?”

“Sure, fine! Go!”

Gwilym can’t help but laugh, tossing his bag over his shoulder. The train is still emptying, and even when he’s so eager, he isn’t _rude_ , so he bounces as he waits for everyone else to get off the train. It’s slow moving, especially with so many people, and he feels like his heart is going to burst out of his chest when he finally ducks under the doorway.

It’s practically slow motion anyway, the way the two of you see each other. You’re looking right at him the moment he’s outside—he’s so hard to miss, tall and handsome as all—and your face splits into a bright grin. It takes everything in him to not run to you, and you to him, but you wait for him to reach you, taking in the sight of him in his uniform with a gentle sigh. Shouldering past unaffected patrons, a smile growing on his face, Gwilym feels his palms sweating, unable to stop his stomach from rolling and his heart from pounding.

He almost seems taller when he stops in front of you, and you can only look at him for a moment, taking him in. Without a thought, one of your hands raises to cup his cheek, thumb running over the dark circle under his eye. “Hello.”

Both of his hands cup your face, keeping your eyes on him, and you release a gentle breath. “You’re here,” he says, like he can’t believe it.

With a quiet laugh, you say, “So are you.”

He doesn’t make a joke about your smart remark. Instead, he leans down, pressing your foreheads together. “You look beautiful.”

Your cheeks flush, palms pressing against his chest. “Stop,” you chuckle. Gwilym beams, his nose brushing yours, and you sigh gently, closing your eyes. It had been far too long since you had been close to him, so long that his calloused hands almost feel foreign against your skin. He’s less polished, even after the accommodations he had after the war ended, but he’s still your Gwil, even with a messy shave and hair that’s just a touch too short from an ill-informed barber. You breathe him in, allowing yourself a moment to commit him to memory. Him, like this, holding you so close, it’s something you never want to forget.

As for your best friend, he can barely contain himself, your noses brushing against one another as you stand together, silent. It wasn’t how you had always imagined your reunion, the intimacy you share on the crowded platform, but you love it all the same, your hand slipping from his cheek to wrap around his shoulders, pulling him into a tight hug. He holds you tightly, an arm wrapped crushingly around your ribcage, and presses his nose into your hair, his eyes closing. Like you had never been apart at all.

He talks the whole way back to his house, his hands waving to exaggerate his points. Mostly, they’re all stories of Ben and Sam, and between the stories and the joy you feel having him back beside you, you can’t help but squeal with laughter, chancing glances over at him when you can. It doesn’t feel, especially not when he teases you about your poor driving, like this is anything more than your best friend, still seventeen and chaffing you about getting your license to drive. It will all hit sometime soon, you’re sure, but this is your Gwil. It feels like it always has, and for that you’re grateful. The snow has made the roads slushy, almost scary to drive on, which you use as an excuse to drive a little slower than normal. He smiles about it; he seems to realize you have an ulterior motive, but he doesn’t mind either. For now, you’re both just happy to be reunited. 

After all, it’s the only free time the two of you are likely to get together tonight. A family dinner waits for him at home, after which you’re sure he’ll be up all night spending time with his parents. You don’t mind, really. They deserve the time more than you do, but you’d like to get as much time with him as you can until tomorrow. 

Your families whisk him into the house as soon as you pull into the driveway, and you follow quietly. Knowing him, it’s the most he’s talked since he left in the first place, but he doesn’t seem to care based on the little smiles he shares with you across the table. His foot brushes your ankles softly every once in a while, always with a sly smile in your direction. For the first time in a long time, the focus is all on him instead of the relationship between the two of you, something you’re grateful for.

“I’m just glad to be back,” he finally says, once dinner has been finished. His blue eyes stare directly back at you, and you can feel your cheeks warm as you break eye contact, taking a steadying breath.

Your dad smiles, looking between the two of you. With a clap, he suggests, “Time for games?”

It’s a cue, one your parents take less than subtly when Gwil’s mum says, “Will you two clear the table?”

With a quiet snort, you nod and push your chair back, exhaling sharply as you watch them filter into the living room, leaving you and Gwil alone in the kitchen. For a moment, you don’t move, pursing your lips in thought. When you had picked him up from the station, of course, there was some tension, but moreso, you were just filled with a childlike excitement, overthinking the endless possibilities of the kind of adventures the two of you would pick up again. But now, the way he looks at you makes your stomach flip. Neither of you have mentioned the letters, mentioned those three words you had shared countless times, and you were nervous to bring it up first.

So you choose to say nothing. You gather a few of the dishes, shooting him a pointed look when he remains at the table. “Don’t think you’re getting off easy, mister. You’re going to help me clean up.”

“Come sit with me,” he says gently, reaching for your wrist.

Softly, you smile and shake your head. Nodding toward the sink, you suggest, “After I do the dishes.”

He heaves a playful sigh, gathering the rest of the dishes as you walk toward the sink to begin filling it up. It’s hardly a minute before he’s joining you, shedding the jacket of his uniform and rolling up his sleeves as you start the water. Throughout your many years of friendship, you had done the dishes together thousands of times—usually as a punishment for some sort of hijink—and you had never watched his reflection in the window like you do now, your upper arm pressing into his as the two of you stood close. He looks more mature than he did before he left, and you suppose you should have expected it, but it certainly is a welcome change. Still handsome as ever in his uniform, previously neatly coiffed hair now falling. You grin. To say it to him first, you’re still shy, but you didn’t mind admitting it to yourself. You love him. It’s more apparent than ever with him standing next to you, glancing up to meet your eyes in the reflection of the window with a wry smile.

“It’s full,” he teases, reaching forward to turn the water off. “I wash, you dry?”

Of course. How could you forget? “As always,” you grin up at him, bumping him with your shoulder.

With a laugh, he shakes his head. You grab a fresh towel from the cabinet as he begins to wash the dishes, sighing a little in tranquility. For a second, you almost forget that electric tension the two of you have had all night long, waiting for the other to say something, to bring up the letters. The routine is still so familiar that for the first time in months, being in love with Gwilym Lee isn’t on your mind, but as you sidle up beside him again, holding your hand out to take the first plate from him, he breaks the silence. “We missed our date,” he sighs, glancing up at you.

Your heart pounds. There’s no need for speculation; you know exactly what he’s talking about. After a second, you prop your hip against the counter and dry the dish lazily, glancing up at him with a small shrug. “It can wait a day,” you decide. “It’s certainly taken us years to get here. One more day can’t hurt.”

He just smiles, bumping your hip with his.

***

The boys must have been a lot closer than you had previously thought. You figure that if you spent every single moment of every day for two years together, you have no choice but to become close. Even so, it surprises you that Ben and Sam are so eager to come visit after only a few weeks of being home. 

Gwil’s home bustles with people, friends and family and people from the church eagerly counting down the minutes to midnight. For the last two years, Gwil had gotten a photo of you at the party, but now that he sees you in person, he holds you as close as he always held those photographs, a large hand always holding yours or your hip, the two of you dodging the still-pleased glances from the women from church. You wonder if they will ever grow out of being smug, but it doesn’t bother you so much anymore, not when Gwil is there to make fun of them with you.

Ben rushes in like a hurricane, boisterous and loud and _funny_ , and Sam and Ruby are content to just laugh at him with you. You mostly heard about how Ben complained too much, but the two of you spend more than enough of the night teasing Gwil together, right up until he meets Leona. The two of them hit it off immediately, much to the satisfaction of Gwilym.

As soon as the boys leave the three of you for a moment, she corners the two of you in the kitchen to obsess over him. “Oh, he is _cute_!” She gushes. You and Ruby both laugh, sharing a knowing look between the two of you. “Really, he’s adorable. And funny, don’t you think?”

“A blast,” Ruby grins, glancing over at you, and you giggle, shaking your head. 

“Ah,” she huffs, waving you both off. “I like him. He’s already talking about coming down next month, I’m thinking I can get him to come for Valentine's day, too.”

“Good Lord!” You laugh, nudging your friend. “You’re not wasting a minute, are you?”

Leona narrows her eyes. “I’m the only single one of the group left,” she huffs. “Even the new girl has a man.” She gestures toward Ruby, whose cheeks flush, her ring sparkling under the lights in the kitchen when she brushes her hair from her forehead subconsciously. “So _excuse me_ for swooping in on a handsome marine.”

With a bright laugh, you shake your head and grip her bicep. “Well, good on you!” You exclaim, shaking your head. You’re about to say something else when an arm slithers around your waist, Gwil’s large palm pressing easily against your belly.

“You ladies having fun?” He asks, his nose pressing against your hair. With a grin, you grip his wrist, turning to look at him. Your friends respond, but neither of you really listen, and they can tell. Most days are spent in your own little world with him, and it’s often hard to snap out of that when you’re around other people. Hopefully, they don’t mind, but even if they do, he’s whispering in your ear and you can’t even focus on them. “It’s almost midnight.”

Glancing at the clock, you chuckle. It’s come on in no time, you think, after meeting your new friends and enjoying the last of your year, you have less than fifteen minutes until the end of the night. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Looking up at your friends, Gwil raises a brow. “Mind if I steal my girl for a few minutes? Sam and Ben are in the living room.”

Ruby wiggles her brows at you and Leona scoffs good-naturedly as they slip past you. “How rude,” you tease.

It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s beaming and tugging you out of the kitchen, down the hall and into his bedroom, away from the crowd. The muffled sounds of the party make you breathe out in relief; you didn’t realize you were becoming overwhelmed until Gwilym whisks you away, and you lean into his side, clutching at his cozy sweater. “I forgot how busy it gets,” he says softly, clutching your hip.

“It gets louder every year,” you agree, slipping from his side to cross the room to the window.

The street is crowded with cars but empty of people, dark and snowy, and Gwil follows you, his hand finding its place on your hip. Silence had become a third companion with the two of you, something you secretly adored. There was a special aspect of silence that you had never thought of before he came home, that you were so perfectly comfortable for one another that you no longer felt the need to fill the quiet around you.

You lean into his side, resting your head on his shoulder with a gentle sigh. Your eyes stay trained out the window, but your mind is on him, as it most often is. It’s your favorite New Year’s party yet, especially after two of them without him. When you were younger, you had spent most of the night hiding in Gwilym’s room, and tonight only reminds you of that, but now he holds you close, thumb stroking your hip through your dress. There’s nothing to feel but adoration, solace, excitement. With him by your side, you think this will be your best year yet.

“Are you happy?” He breaks the silence, not looking down at you.

A smile quirks your lips. “What?”

“Right now, are you happy?”

With an airy breath, you wrap an arm around his waist. “Of course, I am. I’m with you.”

Outside, the crowd begins to count down from ten, and you beam, turning to face him. An affection smile overtakes his face as he looks down at you, hands reaching up to cup your face. You grip his sweater at his waist, grinning up at him as he leans down. The party is only on five, but he can’t wait, pressing his lips to yours, holding your face tightly. Neither of you can keep from smiling, so your teeth knock together awkwardly, but he laughs softly against your lips and tries to power through. With a soft sigh, he draws you closer, teeth catching your lip softly before he pulls away.

Dizzily, you smile, hands moving from his sides to grip his wrists. His eyes are cloudy with affection and you don’t doubt that you look the exact same, smiling up at him softly as your noses brush.

“You still love me?” He asks softly. A question he’s made a habit of asking.

You smile, squeezing his wrists. His naivete makes your heart flutter, his complete lack of awareness for just how head over heels you are for him. As though you could ever be anything but totally, irrevocably in love with Gwilym Lee. “Always.”


End file.
